by Eric Walters
Today Ella and I went to the beach. The topless beach. As always I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew something was up when she told me we were going to the beach and was very, very specific that I had to wear a two-piece suit. Our day at the beach was far more than that. Thank goodness it wasn’t actually a full day.
I knew something was bound to happen, but I wasn’t prepared for this. We were just walking along and all of a sudden Ella removed her top! She turned around and said, “Your turn.” I stammered and tried to answer, finally mumbling something about us getting arrested, and then she told me that we were on a designated topless beach. I looked around. There were hundreds of people. Some were lying on chairs, others on towels on the sand. Some were walking. Others were standing. Some were playing volleyball. All the women were topless.
It hadn’t seemed like that good a day to go to the beach, because it was cloudy and threatening rain. Thank goodness for the clouds. Skin that has never seen the light of day would burn quickly. Slathering on suntan lotion didn’t seem like nearly enough cover. I felt awkward and strange and like I stood out, like everybody would be staring at me. Nobody stared. Nobody cared. It was all just natural.
I guess we would have stayed longer if somebody hadn’t noticed Ella pull out her phone to take some pictures. Instantly it was noticed and people got angry. Apparently it is both a topless and camera-less beach, and a couple of people yelled at her. That whole argument came to an end when there was a clap of thunder and a downpour of rain, and people grabbed their things and ran off the beach. I couldn’t help but think I had a little help from above. Sorry there won’t be any pictures posted from this one!
DAY 83
I saw the sign on the marquee—The Amazing Alvin—and looked over to Ella.
“A magician? We’re going to see a magician?”
“Not a magician, an amazing magician, The Amazing Alvin.”
I knew there’d be more to this than just seeing a magician. “Am I going to have to go up onstage as a volunteer?”
“Being a volunteer would be far, far too easy. Come.”
She led me around the side of the building and through the door marked Stage—Authorized Personnel Only. We stepped inside and were met by a grim-faced security guard who questioned our admission. Why did every place like this have a slightly different version of the same guy? Did they all agree to look angry or constipated? Security guards and runway models.
Ella said a few words to him, and he broke into a friendly smile. He didn’t look scary anymore. He offered a few kind words and then directed us to the right.
Okay, I wasn’t going to be a volunteer, and I certainly wasn’t the Amazing Alvin, so that left only one possible role.
Ella knocked on a dressing-room door.
“Come in,” said a man’s voice from the other side.
We entered. Sitting at a dressing table was a man wearing a tuxedo. Although he didn’t look that amazing, I had to assume this was Alvin.
“The Amazing Alvin?” Ella asked.
“Depends if you’re asking me or my agent or my three ex-wives,” he said.
“There’s nobody else in the room, so I guess you,” Ella said.
He stood up—at least, as up as he had. He wasn’t much taller than Ella and certainly not as tall as me.
“So are you going to be my extra assistant?” he asked Ella.
“Um, I have a feeling it’s going to be me,” I said.
“My goodness you’re a long drink of water. Somebody as tall as you could make me look less amazing. When we’re onstage, try to bend at the knees when you hand me things.”
“I can do that.”
“But there is a plus side to all of this. The costume features a rather short skirt, and with those legs it’s going to look even shorter,” he said.
“And how is that a plus?” I asked. He made me feel uncomfortable.
“Your job is to distract. If they’re looking at you, they’re less likely to see the trick.” He looked me up and down. “You’re going to be quite the distraction.”
I didn’t like the tone in his voice or the way he eyed me with what could only be described as a dirty-old-man leer. Maybe I understood why there were numerous ex-Mrs. Amazing Alvins in the world.
“So how old are you?” he asked.
“I’ll be seventeen on my next birthday,” I lied.
“Oh…that’s…unfortunate. I just assumed you were much older.” He looked disappointed. I felt disgusted.
“Go next door and my regular assistant, Peggy, will help you with your costume.”
The place was pretty packed. There were more than four hundred people, but with the stage lights shining on us so brightly, I really couldn’t see much of them. I knew they were there, though, because they oohed and aahed and cheered, and the one time I bent down too fast with my bottom toward the audience, it brought a whole different type of cheering. Thank goodness I only did that the one time. I learned to aim my bottom away from the audience.
Peggy had been The Amazing Alvin’s assistant for almost ten years. She was younger than Alvin but certainly a lot older than me. Or the age my mother would have been. She said she didn’t know how much longer she could continue to be his “lovely” assistant, but a combination of distance, heavy makeup, glittering costumes, Spanx and a push-up bra managed to keep the illusion alive. It somehow didn’t seem fair that Alvin could be as old as dirt and still be a magician, but at some point she was going to be too old to be his assistant. But, as I’d found out over the years, fair didn’t really mean that much sometimes. I also found out that Peggy was one of the former Mrs. Amazing Alvins. She explained that she was once young and stupid.
The Amazing Alvin was creepy, but a pretty good magician. He did all the classic tricks and even explained some of them to me. I was amazed at how simple some of them were. I’d share them in this blog, but I’m now bound by the magician’s code of silence. To reveal any of the tricks could result in me being disappeared permanently.
Another different was done. And that was the real magic.
DAY 87
“I can’t believe the summer is almost over,” I said to Ella as we walked along.
“It’s been pretty tremendous.”
“Pretty amazing. I’m going to miss it.”
“There’s nothing to miss. Life is all about continuing to do new things. Just think—in five days you’re going to move away from home and into residence. Are you excited or scared?”
“Both, I guess, but more excited than scared,” I said.
“There’s no part of you that should be scared,” Ella said. “Think about everything you’ve done. Is going away to college anything compared to some of those things?”
“Aside from eating sherbet, I guess a lot of what I’ve done is a little more intense than frosh-week activities.”
“You’re going to be great. You are great,” Ella said.
“So are you. When do you leave for school?”
“One day before you,” Ella said. “I’ve got a long plane ride.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to be that far away. I’m going to miss you so much.”
“I’ll miss you too, but there’s Skype, Facebook, texts, tweets and phones, and we’ll both be home for Thanksgiving. Okay, we’re here,” Ella said.
I looked at the sign over the store—The Tat Cat. What sort of place was—then my heart dropped. “Why are we in front of a tattoo parlor?”
“Raise your hand if you’re getting a tattoo!” Ella grabbed me and raised my arm.
“I don’t want a tattoo.”
“You didn’t want to do a lot of the stuff, but you did and were happy,” she said.
I thought back to the glider, the runway, the karaoke, the snake, the roller coaster and all of the other things I’d done.
I nodded. “I’m glad I did all of them, but a tatto
o? Isn’t it permanent and painful?”
“I’ve heard it ranges from mildly uncomfortable to extremely painful, depending where on the body it’s put. Face, neck, hands, feet, ankles and rib cage are the worst. Forearm, shoulder, calves and butt are the least painful.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“Do you think I’d suggest you do something I didn’t research thoroughly?”
“But what about things like hepatitis or—?”
“Got it covered.” Ella pulled out a piece of paper. “This is the report from public health giving this tattoo parlor the highest scores on sanitation and practice in the city. I figured you’d like to see that before going inside.”
“I guess it’s good that this place won’t give me a disease, but this is different than the other things I’ve done because it’s forever.”
“Soph, everything you’ve done is forever. Those experiences will always be part of you.”
“But not visible for everybody to see.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Anybody who looks at you knows you’re a different person than you were less than ninety days ago.”
“Look, I don’t even know what tattoo I’d get.”
“It’s already been selected, designed and arranged.”
“It is?” I was almost too stunned to talk. “What am I getting?”
“That would spoil the surprise.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
She shook her head. “You’ll like it a lot. Have faith. In fact, you have to have so much faith that you don’t even look at it while it’s being done.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Completely, 100 percent serious. This is a total act of faith and a total loss of control. This is the ultimate test.”
“Look, I just don’t think this is such a great idea.”
“You’ve come too far to back out now. Just sit back, relax and close your eyes. I’ve been told it’s better not to look as they insert little needles into your arm thousands of times.”
“You’ve found a way to make it even less attractive.”
“I think it’ll be more meaningful for you to see the design fully created rather than little by little as it emerges.”
“So…just so I understand. You want me to get a tattoo, which I really don’t want to get, and I don’t get to choose what it is or even know what it is until it’s already etched into me.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m asking you to do.”
This couldn’t be real.
“But I will tell you where it will be,” Ella said. She took me by the hand again and turned my arm over. “Right here on your left forearm. It won’t be big, but it will be where you’ll be able to see it whenever you want.”
I looked down at my arm—my un-inked arm—and thought about how much I didn’t want to have anything there.
“Well?” Ella asked.
“I don’t want to do it.”
“But will you? You’ve trusted me for the whole summer. Will you trust me one last time?”
“I’ve already trusted you with my life. At least a few times.”
“So?”
I hesitated before answering. “Let’s go inside.”
“That’s my girl.”
Ella opened the door, I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me. The place looked deserted. It held some cabinets and six empty chairs, the sort that would be in a hair salon. In fact, it looked like a hair place.
“Hello!” Ella called out.
A curtain parted, and a woman covered with tattoos stepped out.
“Are you Elvira?” Ella asked.
“That’s me. Are you Ella?”
“Yes, and this is your canvas for the day, the girl I told you about over the phone, my friend Sophie.”
“She must be a very good friend to agree to do this without knowing what’s being tattooed.”
“Or a very trusting and stupid friend,” I added.
“Or you could be all three of those at once. Have a seat,” she said and gestured to one of the chairs.
Uneasily I settled into the big comfy seat. She pulled up a stool and sat down beside me.
“You are eighteen, right?” Elvira asked.
“Yes, just a few months ago.”
“Excellent. If you were younger you’d either have to be accompanied by a parent or have a signed release.”
I turned to Ella. “I hadn’t even thought about it, but what’s my father going to say about this?”
“I talked to him about it. He even knows the tattoo you’re getting.”
“He does?”
“Both he and your brother.”
“Oliver knows and he didn’t tell me?”
“He wanted to come along and get a tattoo as well. He wanted This side up to be tattooed upside down on his stomach.”
“Idiot.”
“He even did a rough version with a marker to show me and your dad. I’m shocked how well he can write on himself.”
“Okay, this is all fascinating,” Elvira said, although she didn’t sound like she was finding it anything other than boring. “So left or right arm?”
“She’s right-handed, so I think her left forearm would be better,” Ella said.
Elvira pushed up the sleeve of my sweater to reveal the target of the ink.
“So, Sophie, just to confirm, you’re agreeable to this happening, correct?” she asked.
I nodded. “Go ahead. Let’s do it.”
“I’m going to apply an antiseptic swab to sanitize it and then shave the site.”
“You’re going to shave my arm?”
“Just where the tat is going. Let’s get started.”
Ella sat beside me, holding my hand, distracting me and keeping me looking away from where Elvira was working. I felt a series of painful punctures, followed by a soothing rub as she removed the excess ink. Part of me was tempted to peek at the design, but the biggest part just wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening. Of course, the pain of the needles plunging into my skin and the whirring of the little machine made it impossible to ignore. What was it going to be?
“There, finished,” Elvira said.
“Really?” I asked.
“I am unless you want me to do a second one.”
“No! One is enough.”
“Are you ready to see your tattoo?” Ella asked.
“Ready or not, I guess it’s time.”
I looked at my arm. There was one word. Grace. My mother’s name. I burst into tears.
DAY 88
“How’s your arm feeling?” Ella asked.
“It’s sore.” I pulled up the sleeve of my top to show her the spot on my arm protected by gauze, a bandage and elastic tape. Underneath was my tattoo—underneath was my mother. From now on, for the rest of my life, I would have Grace on my arm as well as in my heart.
“What did your father say when he saw it?”
“He didn’t say much, but he did cry a lot. We both cried.”
“I like that your father isn’t afraid to show his emotions.”
“He’s always been that way.” I thought a little bit. “What I didn’t realize is how strong he is. He and my brother are going to do okay without me being here. I guess they don’t need me as much as I thought.”
“They need you. They just don’t need you to be their mother. What they need is for you to do well at college. Speaking of which, I have a going-away present for you.”
“You didn’t have to do that! This whole summer has been one big present.”
“I loved doing it, being part of it.” She reached down, pulled a box out from under the chair and handed it to me.
“I feel bad that I didn’t get anything for you,” I said.
“Not necessary. This has been a present for me as much as it was for you.”
; I removed the lid. Inside was a book, and on the cover it read simply Ninety Days of Different.
“I’ve been working on it all summer. It’s a book about your adventures.”
“That’s so amazing. I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say, look.”
I opened to the first page and there was a picture—taken by Ella with her phone—of me eating Wild ’n’ Reckless sherbet. I laughed. “I had no idea that sherbet would predict the summer I was going to have.”
I leafed through the book. Day by day, page by page, it showed pictures of my summer. It was like I was seeing things done by somebody else, or that I’d seen in a movie or TV show. But they were my adventures, I’d lived them, and there before my eyes was the photographic proof.
“You need to take this away with you to college,” Ella said.
“Of course I will.”
“I want you to look at it all the time so you can remember that you’re not who you used to be, and that you’re not yet the person you’re going to become.”
“I’m a work in progress. Like us all,” I said.
“And that progress is made whenever we risk doing something different. You have to keep on doing different.”
“Not every day, but I will keep doing different.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I gave Ella a big hug. A thank-you hug. A sister hug. An almost-goodbye hug.
I couldn’t promise every day, but I would keep trying new things—starting tomorrow.
DAY 90
I posted the picture on Instagram and Twitter. It wasn’t fancy. It was a shot of my packed suitcases sitting beside the bed I’d slept in for almost all my life, the bed I was going to sleep in one more night before I left the next day for college. Of course, I’d be back at Thanksgiving and Christmas and the next summer, and who knew what would happen after college, but it was never going to be the same. This little room would always be my room. It would stay the same, but I was going to be different. There were lots and lots of differents ahead of me.
It was time for one final blog entry before I went to bed. I’d been thinking about it all the time I was packing. I’d written so many. I thought back to those first blogs, the first tweets, the first pictures, and how strange it had all felt. Was that even me? I hadn’t just done the differents—I was different. I thought about how it all had gotten easier, becoming something I actually looked forward to.